Spiders
by ZPumpkin
Summary: A short fic about titles, masks, and cuddling.


Lasaath Adaar had learned to conjure fireballs, to sheathe skin and ice and break it, to guard herself with lightning, and now she learned of masks. This last one had no teacher. No one had written a tome about stamping stoicness on your face, or how to wear the awe others pushed onto you. Especially not the mixture of awe and uncertain fear that came with being Qunari. Here is your Inquisitor, world, horned and skin grey as raw iron, taller than any human man. She could see the question behind their staring eyes—would she save them just to enslave them?

And always the mask. No smiles, no grim grins, nothing that fit in her old life of mercenary work. She'd once worn her heart on her sleeve, to convince others it was worth guarding. In all human groups, trust was won with vulnerabilities exposed. That was fine by her, really. She was a bad Qunari from birth, volatile as the wind. Then a demon-god had branded her, and the awe-struck looks began, and the masks.

Scout Harding, fireball that she was, stuttered and spoke every word with such care. Adaar had thought this normal, until she'd caught the laughing threats towards other scouts. The merchants that flocked to this mountainous keep, every one of them bowed when all she wanted was a snack, and suddenly she was buying the finest Antivan wine instead of her favorite pungent cheese. Even Cassandra, once the Right Hand, insisted on strict composer around Adaar—no improper words, no careless camaraderie. Adaar suspected she was becoming a replacement Divine for Cassandra. To all of them. And, when she faced mad templars or monstrous animals, she wondered if they knew how easily she could bleed.

Night stars sparkled in the sky when Adaar returned from the Hinterlands, blood and mud gumming in her hair. Cassandra made her clean in the drafty tower beside the gate. Dress up in her proper clothes, something made by humans for a race with less bulk than Qunari. It pressed on her lungs and pinched her elbows, but this was the mask. She put her back straight, sucked in her stomach, and bit her tongue until her face was relaxed as the stone statues of Justinia. This late, she could skirt by the new gawk-eyed recruits and the eager nobles. Varric slept in his chair, ink on his face like war paint. Except for the night watch, Skyhold slept, and Adaar dropped her mask with relief before she climbed to her room.

The room bigger than her birth-house, with a bed bigger than her. Adaar pulled the buttons loose from her clothes, let her frame out of its prim prison, and dropped belly-first on the bed. It sank under her weight, too plush by far. But it was soft on the hollowness in her guts that lying gave her.

The door opened—Adaar tensed, mercenary instincts screaming intruder, then forced herself to relax—and feet padded to her bed. Warmth dropped on her back. Fingers played at the ragged edges of her broken horns. Then Sera set her head on top of Adaar's head, laying on her like she was the bed. "Bring me anything sweet?" she asked.

"There's some honey, on the bees," Adaar said. "I don't recommend it though. They might be wasps. I'm not sure." She tilted her head back, and Sera flopped to her side. "How about my lips?" And Sera grinned, lunging forwards into a kiss.

Masks didn't work with Sera. She hated them, sought them out and destroyed them with the ferocity of a hunting hound. Luckily for Adaar, they'd met before the Inquisitor's mask was forced on her. Both of them, fighting assassins, laughing madly at their naked legs, and Sera had signed on to the rag-tag Inquisition.

Feeling lighter, now, Adaar stretched out cat-like, pleased at Sera's avid attention. She was scarred and rough-edged, and that seemed to appeal to the elf. Flaws forbidden for an Inquisitor were, to her, things to touch and croon over. So Adaar relaxed and Sera began working her hands under the silken shirt, seeking out the wide sword-scar over her shoulder blades.

When she stopped suddenly, Adaar groaned. "Please?" But Sera was tense on her back. When she tried to look up, look anywhere but the flowery bed sheets, Sera pushed on her horns.

"Just stay there a minute, yeah?" Sera said, sliding off the bed. "Look at the nice flowers. Think about my butt, I know you like that." She was moving across the floor, little hurried steps. "Just a second, no looking, come here you…" Her voice dropped.

Adaar looked up, worried and amused. Sera was crouching over a fairly large spider, trying to stomp it as quietly as possible. It took a few tries, with how slow her leg moved, then she squashed it, pulled her shoe off, and tossed it out the window. And turned to see Adaar staring, blinking in confusion.

"Didn't want to scare you," Sera said. She plopped back on the bed, side by side with the Qunari despite the size difference. "Also, I said no looking! What're you gonna do if I get changed? Well, that's fine, but other times you should listen to me."

It took Adaar a moment, sorting through her memories. After the mishap in the Fade, when literal incarnations of fear swarmed her little group, she'd told Sera she was afraid of spiders. She wasn't, at all, but Sera was near trembling in her room and she would've said anything to make her laugh. So she said that spiders scared the life out of her, that she had nightmares of them, and Sera had giggled. Then, except for hanging around Sera more, she'd forgotten about it.

Sera had not. Even now, above her smirk, she was concerned. Worried that the Inquisitor, twice-survivor of the Fade, was afraid of spiders. Or, no. Not that. Sera had called her Inquisitor only once, to make fun of the title. She was worried that Lasaath Adaar was afraid.

Adaar's throat tightened, and her heart surged to somewhere in her mouth, and she engulfed Sera in a hug. Sera squealed, half-hearted, then wrapped her limbs around Adaar in return. "Thanks," Adaar said into a messy head of blonde hair. Tears were pricking at her eyes. She let them fall, not crying or sobbing but some kind of giddy, delighted revealing of herself. No masks, no Inquisitor. Just Adaar, who was not afraid of spiders, and Sera with one shoe, wrapped in each other on a stupidly big bed.

"Oh, no, this is thanks enough. Do this instead of the words, okay?" Sera wriggled in her arms and made a breathy, contented noise. After a beat, she added, "I'm gonna steal one of Cassandra's shoes," and Adaar snorted.


End file.
